


Thermodynamic Equilibrium

by DT Maxwell (Draya)



Series: Coffee & Carbuncles [20]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: (that fails miserably), Academia Is a Bloodsport, Carbuncle Shenanigans, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Fluff, Food Porn, Highlander Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Hurt/Comfort, Ishgard (Final Fantasy XIV), Ishgard Politics (Final Fantasy XIV), Lazy Mornings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slice of Life, Take Your (Carbuncle) Daughters to Work Day, Teasing, Unconventional Families, Wolmeric Week (Final Fantasy XIV), Worldbuilding, attempted kitchen sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draya/pseuds/DT%20Maxwell
Summary: Thermodynamic equilibrium, noun: a state of a physical system in which it is in mechanical, chemical, and thermal equilibrium and in which there is therefore no tendency for spontaneous change.“He helps me achieve thermodynamic equilibrium. [...] I have cold hands. Aymeric has warm hands. Together, we maintain the ideal temperature for hand-holding.”Snapshots of the relationship between Ser Aymeric de Borel, Lord Commander of the Temple Knights and Lord Speaker of the House of Lords for the Republic of Ishgard, and Mistress Synnove Greywolfe, Warrior of Light and Vice Chair of the Aetherophysics Department for the Arcanists' Guild of Mealvaan's Gate, for Wolmeric Week.--Tags will be updated as new chapters are added. Please refer to the Table of Contents in the first chapter for individual summaries and any necessary warnings.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel & Handeloup de Daimbaux, Aymeric de Borel & Lucia goe Junius, Aymeric de Borel's Cat & Other(s), Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Series: Coffee & Carbuncles [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/807090
Comments: 42
Kudos: 22





	1. Table of Contents

**1\. Table of Contents**  
You are here!

**2\. Day 1 (Formal):[A Splatter of Rage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805018/chapters/73328280)** **  
**An unfortunate encounter sours an otherwise agreeable party; at least Count de Haillenarte won't be holding either Aymeric or Synnove's tempers against them.  
 **WARNINGS:** Brief references to misogyny, classism, and violence (including mention of blood).

**Day 2 (The Firmament):[ _A Rising Chorus_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29493168)** _(link redirects to separate fic)_ **  
**A previously written story that perfectly fits the theme, so why reinvent the wheel? Construction on the Firmament is finally finished, and the residents have even hosted an impromptu concert on behalf of Lord Francel--time for the encore!

**3\. Day 3 (Casual/Modern):[A Moment of Ordinary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805018/chapters/73434912)**  
Just another Market Day at Red Rooster Stead for an arcanist, her knight, and a charm of carbuncles. Mind the sheep!

**4\. Day 4 (Flowers):[A Seed of Calvary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805018/chapters/73502976)**  
The most innocuous things can send a person over a cliff in a tumult of memory and emotion; sometimes the only thing a man can do for his ladylove is to catch her when she falls.  
 **WARNINGS:** PTSD

**5\. Day 5 (Home):[A Touch of Midnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805018/chapters/73556574)  
**Synnove returns to Borel Manor after a long day, fully expecting to crawl into bed next to her beloved--if he was _there_. Unfortunately, a poorly-timed migraine has waylaid him elsewhere.

**6\. Day 6 (Food):[An Appetite for Ardor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805018/chapters/73616076)  
**Aymeric loves his ladylove's confections nearly as much as he does the lady in question--and frequently it leads to mischief where Synnove would (mostly) prefer it didn't occur. (Kitchen rules are rules for a reason!)  
 **WARNINGS:** Mild NSFW

**7\. Day 7 (Love):[A Reverie of Repose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805018/chapters/73671474)**  
It's so rare to have a day and just _be,_ with no cares or responsibilities about which to worry. There's only one way to enjoy it: sleep in.

**8\. Bonus Day (Ducklings):[A Charm of Carbuncles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805018/chapters/73725132)**  
It's the inaugural Take Your (Carbuncle) Daughters To Work Day at the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, "thermodynamic equilibrium" is a reference to an old ship joke for Aymeric and Synnove, first referenced in my FFXIV Write 2017 fills "[Kiss and Tell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12883359/chapters/29769381#workskin)" and "[Snow Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12883359/chapters/30213615#workskin)."


	2. A Splatter of Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Day 1: Formal_
> 
> An unfortunate encounter sours an otherwise agreeable party; at least Count de Haillenarte won't be holding either Aymeric or Synnove's tempers against them.
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** Brief references to misogyny, classism, and violence (including mention of blood).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially posted to my [tumblr](https://dragons-bones.tumblr.com/post/644513828248371200/ffxiv-a-splatter-of-rage) on March 1, 2021.

For all that Synnove intensely disliked (an understatement) what Ishgardian nobility considered a proper social function, she moved through the crowd of the Haillenarte parlor with an ease that certainly didn’t appear wholly feigned. Part of that, Aymeric knew, came from being forced to attend the much more cutthroat soirees of Ul’dahn business magnates by her mother as a child, whether she liked it or not, and absorbing how they traded barbs and threats disguised as flattery and friendliness. Part of it also stemmed from the years of maintaining the façade of bureaucratic benignity while serving as a cargo assessor for Mealvaan’s Gate and waiting for just the right moment to bury a merchant-captain in so much red tape they couldn’t see the light of day for sennights.

“There is no Ishgardian count or lordling,” Synnove had muttered to him the first time she had accompanied him to a party as his beloved, and not a Warrior of Light, “that has an ego to match that of a member of the fucking EATC board of directors. The likes of Lolorito and Lady Shushuha would flay this lot alive with just their tongues and barely consider it sport.”

(Aymeric was man enough to admit that the mental image of both Rereha’s mother and the de facto head of the Syndicate unleashed among the Ishgardian elite had been a delightful mental image that had made _that_ particular ball much more tolerable.)

Tonight was the type of gathering that was focused on gossip and hobnobbing rather than dancing—admittedly something neither of them had overly minded, too tired from overwork to gather the energy for more than idle strolling while sipping fine wines—and he had been drawn early on into a conversation with Counts de Haillenarte and Dzemael, and the Speaker for the House of Commons, Lionnet Aucheforne. Artoirel and Lord Edmont had thus taken turns to keep Synnove company for most of the night; Aymeric had caught her eye more than once as she had taken leisurely turns of the room with either gentleman, delighting in the spark of predatory, possessive satisfaction in her gaze when it alighted upon himself. She was _quite_ fond of him in the fine blue coat she had brought back from the First for him, and it was his honor to be a source of _some_ pleasure for her this eve.

Unfortunately, it now appeared that in the lull between father and son switching off escort duty, someone had waylaid his lady on the far side of the parlor. It was only years of exposure to the subtle shifts in Synnove’s carefully maintained mask of pleasant neutrality that allowed Aymeric, even at this distance, to pick out the sourness lurking at the slightly downturned corners of her mouth, the chill turning her lovely eyes from grass green to sharp emerald. He couldn’t _see_ who it was that was speaking to her, however; leaning around Count Baurendouin would be far too obvious to do, so instead he kept half his attention on the conversation in which he was supposed to be participating as he flicked his gaze towards Synnove every few moments.

Finally, the crowd parted, just a little bit—

—oh, _Seven fucking Hells._

Aymeric was quite certain he had _not_ spoken aloud, but there was no hiding the horror contorting his face at the moment, as both Counts and his House of Commons counterpart immediately ceased speaking to stare at him in quiet bemusement for a handful of heartbeats. And then, in one synchronized movement, all three men turned to follow his gaze. Another heartbeat of silence and while Master Aucheforne maintained his puzzlement, both Count Baurendouin and Count de Dzemael suddenly _swore._

“Why would you invite _her?_ ” Count de Dzemael hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

“I did no such thing, and neither would my lady wife,” Count Baurendouin replied in the same tone. Both men had hunched their shoulders in unconsciousness defensiveness.

Clearing his throat, and speaking in slightly more normal tones, Count Baurendouin turned to him and said, “Ser Aymeric, I will take no offense should you decide to escort your lady home early tonight. Or if anything untoward should happen to another of my guests in ensuring your lady leaves further unmolested.”

This was why Count de Haillenarte was his favorite Head of a High House—after Artoirel, of course.

Without any further prompting, Aymeric broke away and strode in ground-eating movements for Synnove while the two counts explained to Master Aucheforne why the sight of Lady Isabeau de Torsefers—Aymeric’s mama’s absolute least favorite cousin—struck terror into most of high society.

Lady de Torsefers occupied an unassailable position in Ishgard: widow to a noble knight of means who had died in honorable combat slaying Dravanians. That she was widowed at twenty-one, five months after her marriage and carrying her husband’s heir, had been considered a romantic tragedy among her generation. That her position mere steps away from saintliness had meant no one had been willing to rein in the worst of her snide, cruel comments for anyone who presented the slightest inconvenience to her whims and wants, that had transformed over the decades into the haughty never-wrong surety of an elderly dowager, was considered a waste of potential of a maiden who had been a shining example of proprietary and grace at the time of her betrothal.

“A feral croc in karakul’s clothing, that one,” he had overheard Mama mutter to Hersande, once, when Lady de Torsefers had shown up unannounced for afternoon tea.

He wove through the crowd with ease, startling no few of the lords and ladies, leaving a wake of fluttering silks and wools behind him. And with every step closer, Synnove’s expression chilled further and further until her face was as cold and expressionless as a statue of the Fury Herself.

(That tiny, atavistic part of his mind recognized that “Fury” was too-apt a comparison.)

Aymeric _finally_ reached his lady’s side, nearly out of breath, to hear Lady de Torsefers say, somehow managing to look down her nose despite age having shrunk her to ilms shorter than Synnove, “—though I suppose you aren’t the worst choice to finally beget a passel of Borel heirs.”

Synnove’s grasp on her wine glass tightened so much that her knuckles visibly whitened. Aymeric internally _seethed,_ but this, unfortunately, wasn’t the first time some too-nosy noble had thought they needed to venture their (unwanted, unasked for, _absolutely inappropriate_ ) opinion about what type of family Synnove and Aymeric should have. (Never mind they had everything they wanted just as it was.) Still, it never failed to have him see red that _anyone_ would reduce a woman, much less a heroine of the Dragonsong War and a Warrior of Light, to _breeding potential._

“Children aren’t in our future,” Synnove said in a voice so frosty it was a wonder her breath didn’t ice the air before her. Aymeric ilmed closer to her, gently setting his hand on the small of her back; she shifted imperceptibly to press back against him. “The carbuncles are rambunctious enough on their own.”

Lady de Torsefers laughed, dry and mocking, her beady eyes glinting. “Oh, children are a much larger challenge than pets, though a proper governess makes that simpler!”

Synnove’s expression finally broke, twisting into an ugly snarl he had last seen at the Ghimlyt Dark, and she _growled,_ low and furious, with enough force that Aymeric felt it reverberate up his arm. He may have made a similar sound himself, he couldn’t say for certain, though he did know he saw red once again. The fact that there currently wasn’t blood staining the Haillenarte carpet or dripping down the walls was likely a product of divine intervention: _nothing_ enraged Synnove quite so much as any implication that her carbuncles weren’t people.

His mama’s least favorite cousin for obvious reasons finally looked at him, then glanced away dismissively. “Two governesses, perhaps, to counteract the late archbishop’s taint.”

Shock knocked him off the edge of rage, ice running down his spine, and Aymeric’s jaw dropped open as he stared at Lady de Torsefers and her mean little smile, so absolutely taken aback that his mind couldn’t process the full depths of the insult. He heard more than one outraged gasp from the nearby nobles.

There was a beat of stillness, the sounds of the rest of the party distant and dim—and then Synnove threw her wine into Lady de Torsefers’s face.

The dowager shrieked in surprise and outrage as the liquid streaked her face powder, soaked her hair, and dripped onto her widow’s weeds. She pulled out a handkerchief and started frantically dabbing at her eyes as a few startled, choked off laughs echoed around them before the culprits hurriedly turned away; Aymeric didn’t bother to do similarly, instead letting out his smirk as malicious glee unfolded in his chest. (Did he giggle? He wasn’t sure; but at least he was sure that no one would hold it against him.) Once her eyes were sufficiently clear, the widow lowered the handkerchief to glare at Synnove, a nasty sneer curdling her mouth.

“How _dare_ you, you ill-bred cur,” Lady de Torsefers hissed.

Synnove matched her glare, unblinking, as she set her now-empty wine glass down on the tray that a server had whisked over to present and then just as quickly whisked away. “Madam,” said Synnove, voice shivering with barely-contained rage, “should you ever again insult any member of my family, whether it be in my hearing or not, I will do worse than douse you with wine.”

The malicious glee morphed into pride and deep affection; even years after she had first done so, it never failed to awe Aymeric that Synnove had chosen _him,_ that she counted him among her loved ones and a member of her disparate family. In as deliberate an insult as he could manage without actually wasting words on the woman, he turned his back on Lady de Torsefers, with no bow or nod or accordance of respect expected from a Temple Knight to a martyr’s widow, ignoring her gasp of outrage. Synnove sniffed at his nudge on her back, but acquiesced, spinning on the ball of her foot and in unison, the couple left.

They were, fortunately, not far from the large parlor’s exit, so only a few eyes followed them as they swept out with a pointed swirl of Synnove’s green skirts and their heads held high. The murmuring of the party faded away as her heels clacked loudly against the marble floor of House Haillenarte’s grand entrance foyer, the sound sharp and strident as she near-vibrated with fury, and she growled, “I know we’re rather overdressed for it, but I want a drink from the Forgotten Knight. The sharp, nasty stuff you use to get very drunk very quickly.”

Aymeric used the hand still on her back to pull her closer, arm now firmly looped around her waist, and kissed the side of her head. “No argument from me, darling,” he said. “And then we can detour to the Congregation and blow up a few striking dummies. We can even dress them in old black rags and use mops for grey hair.”

“I’m keeping you.”

“You’d better!”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady de Torsefers/Aymeric's mama's least favorite cousin was first briefly referenced in my FFXIV Write 2020 fill "[The Bluebird of Ishgard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65279224#workskin)."
> 
> As always happens, I intended to write something shippy and got derailed into worldbuilding. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Sorry not sorry.


	3. A Moment of Ordinary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Day 3: Casual ~~/Modern~~_
> 
> Just another Market Day at Red Rooster Stead for an arcanist, her knight, and a charm of carbuncles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially posted to my [tumblr](https://dragons-bones.tumblr.com/post/644696515445768192/ffxiv-a-moment-of-ordinary) on March 2, 2021!

* * *

“One hundred forty gil.”

“Fifty gil.”

“Fifty? That’s obscene, these artichokes are the first of the harvest! One thirty!”

“Don’t you dare pull that shite with me, Arenlona, I know for a _fact_ the Bismarck has first purchase rights on the first harvest of damn near everything the Stead grows. Sixty.”

The first market day of spring at Red Rooster Stead was always an especially boisterous affair: makeshift stalls lined most of the paths through the main compound and spilled out beyond the walls, manned by botanists and farmers selling a wide variety of produce and other goods. Spring asparagus and lettuce and broccoli and parsnips; oranges from the vast Cedarwood orchards; pineapples and kiwi from the Stead’s offshoot plantation in Raincatcher Gully; honey and beeswax; mutton and pork and buffalo in various cuts; even fish, fresh caught that morning. There were food stalls selling bread and fruit juices and roasted meats and vegetables to the hungry shoppers; even stalls where the Stead residents and other local farmers were selling yarn and knit garments, assorted leathers goods, embroidery, bead and shell jewelry, wooden decorations carved into birds and flowers and whales. A pop-up smithy was at the edge of the makeshift market, too, repairing farming and gardening tools.

The press of people along the Stead’s paths was enormous; most were either other farmers or home owners from around Lower La Noscea, or the residents of Mist come to do their weekly shopping without having to trek to Limsa Lominsa. Some Lominsans, too, came here; Synnove had seen Melkoko haggling over buffalo tenderloin, two of her sister Sirens dutifully carrying the crates of vegetables she had purchased earlier, as well as a trio of baby arcanists sharing a bag of roasted walnuts who had excitedly waved to her.

Aymeric was…somewhere, in the scrum. They had gone in different directions to get as much shopping done as possible before the crowds swelled to suffocatingly large by noon.

Synnove finally wound down her own haggling—one hundred gil for a small crate of artichokes, plus another hundred or so spent on fennel and rutabagas—and waved to Arenlona as she joined the throngs walking through the Stead. Ivar and Galette trotted over from the nearby snack stall, and she bent down to accept the gil-pouch from Ivar. Thankfully, carbuncles who understood exchanging gil for goods and services were a familiar sight to the Stead’s farmhands, so that was one less thing to worry about on market day.

“Do you know where your sibs and Aymeric went?” she said as she stuffed the pouch in her pocket and stood upright, carefully balancing the crates of vegetables in her arms. The carbuncles had all gone with Aymeric, at first, before her emerald and ruby came meandering along to find both her and some treats.

 _The girls wanted to see the sheep,_ Ivar chittered. He managed to get his matching harmonic to sound _bland._

Galette giggled.

Synnove groaned. “Oh, no.”

Galette giggled again, and Ivar joined her, his crackling cackle a counterpoint to his sister’s windchime voice.

Sighing, the Highlander strode briskly through the crowd, her carbuncles on her heels, until she left the main compound and the crush of people wasn’t quite so great. She headed first for the hitches where many of the visitors had left their chocobos, herself included. Trifle eyed her when she approached, but the draught chocobo knelt without prompting, and Synnove quickly stored the purchases away in her saddlebags and panniers, idly noting Aymeric must have been by at some point; a few crates of fruits, two jars of honey, and a carefully wrapped package upon which an ice crystal sat that was likely either meat or fish had already been packed in such a way to ensure the weight on Trifle was evenly balanced.

Once she was finished, she gave Trifle a pat on the neck, and the chocobo loomed upright once more, shaking her feathers back into place. Synnove glanced down at the carbuncles, but before she could say anything, both Galette and Ivar did that pre-jump wiggle of their tails, concentration keen on their faces, and then leaped into the air and onto the draught chocobo’s saddle. Trifle _warked_ , unimpressed, and turned her head around to give the pair a gimlet stare. Galette reached up and gently pat-patted her beak with a paw.

Synnove laughed. “Well, I suppose that answers my question if you wanted to see the sheep, too.”

The siblings chirruped at her and loafed onto the saddle, ears flicking, while Trifle huffed and resettled herself. With another laugh and a scritch for each of them—the carbuncles behind their ears, Trifle on her shoulder—Synnove headed in the direction of the sheep pens.

Most of the flocks in La Noscea grazed the pastures north of Cedarwood and along the rolling hills and valleys that eventually led up to the forested southern shores of Bronze Lake; the Red Rooster shepherds only kept a small flock at the Stead, primarily to make crossbreeding for specific traits easier to track before introducing those traits more widely into the larger flocks. But the flock at the Stead was wildly popular with many of the local children (and no few adults), and the shepherds usually allowed visitors to pet or brush some of the calmer ewes…in exchange for listening to educational lectures on animal husbandry or the La Noscean wool industry.

Synnove smiled ruefully as she trudged up the short hill to where the sheep were kept. There was already a small crowd of excited children pressed up against the fencing, some parents standing aside and talking amongst themselves while keep an eye on their charges. Now, where were the members of her little fam—ahah!

She slowed down, hooking her thumbs into her belts as she strolled closer.

Aymeric wore a soft cotton shirt of deep blue, with black wool breeches tucked into knee-high leather boots; with neither Naegling on his hip nor a bow slung on his back, he looked like just another farmer or homesteader gazing out across the pen. Something about seeing him dressed down always left her fond and pleased, a sweet ache of _what if_ in her chest. Perhaps it was the way the tension bled out of him, as it only rarely did in Ishgard, where he needed to be on alert for a sudden emergency requiring either the Lord Commander or the Lord Speaker. His shoulders loosened and his spine was no longer quite so rigid, an aura of content softness draping around him instead.

Freedom was an excellent look on him.

He turned as she came up next to him, and he grinned, bright and happy, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Synnove smiled back, helpless to do anything except push herself to her toes to kiss his cheek and bask in his presence.

“Hello, dearheart,” she said as she dropped back to her feet, leaning into his side when his raised his arm to make room for her. She slid her own arm around his waist as his settled on her shoulders, and she briefly squeezed his torso in a half-hug. “Did you manage to keep from raising Chartain’s blood pressure today?”

Aymeric kissed the top of her head and nuzzled against her hair before he responded. “It’s too easy to rile that man up,” he said, mischief coloring his voice, leaning back far enough to meet her eyes as his own ice-blue gaze danced with mirth. “He takes the barely-existing rivalry between La Noscea and Coerthas shepherds _far_ too seriously.”

“Oh, don’t be mean!” Synnove swatted at his chest, but Aymeric merely caught her hand and raised it to his lips to kiss her knuckles. She firmed her expression, refusing to let his affection distract her, tempting as it was, and raised her eyebrows expectantly for a proper answer.

“ _Mean_ would be managing to get Estinien to stay in place long enough to drop him on Chartain’s doorstep and watch the two get into a row about wool quality,” he said primly, then pressed another kiss to her knuckles at her reluctant laugh. “And for the record, no, I did not. I believe one of the other shepherds saw me on the way with the girls and wrangled him away elsewhere.”

She laughed louder, shaking her head, and finally glanced out at the pen properly.

Tyr was in a staring contest with one of the rams, ears canted at the ninety-degree angle—one ear pointing straight up, the other straight to the side—that for him generally conveyed his lack of impressment. The ram trotted in place, snorting and acting as if he would charge at any moment, but sitting upright as he was, Tyr had to look _down_ at him, and was three times the ram’s size in sheer volume anyway. The ram was intelligent enough to realize that Tyr likely belonged in the “thing that herds me” category rather than the “thing that will steal my ladies from me” or “thing that will eat me” categories, but not quite enough to know he should back down before Tyr bowled him over out of annoyance.

And the twins were being themselves, bouncing atop the thick wooly backs of the ewes, leaping from sheep to sheep and loudly giggling while the onlooking children cheered them on. Roksana especially was making a game of it, deliberately aiming for targets a distance away to make a challenge for herself or at the suggestion of one of the children, while Amandina was more sedately hopping along with no discernible pattern but rather the fun of it. The shepherd on watch had an obvious eye on them, but was leaning up against the fence, arms crossed and otherwise relaxed, clearly not worried; the girls being ridiculous was a common enough sight to most resident of Lower La Noscea now.

Synnove watched her carbuncles fondly for a moment, before she finally called out, “Girls! Tyr! Time to head home!”

The girls and the watching children all went _awwww,_ but Amandina and Roksana obediently changed course and hopped from the other side of the paddock to where their mama and papa stood. Tyr, meanwhile, reached out with a paw and bopped the ram right between the ears; the ram’s eyes crossed, momentarily stunned, and he bleated unhappily, but the distraction was enough for her big topaz carbuncle to leave without incident, trotting towards the fence and easily bounding over it to sit at her feet and headbutt her stomach.

 _Hi, Mama,_ Tyr chittered happily.

“Hello, boyo,” she said, freeing her hand from Aymeric—he pouted and made The Sad Eyes at her, which she ignored for now (silly Aymeric, she’d been ignoring Galette’s version of that for over half her life now)—to reach down and scritch behind his ears.

The twins, meanwhile, finally made it to the fence, and leaped from there onto her shoulder (Amandina) and head (Roksana).

 _Hi Mommy hi Mommy hi Mommy hi Mommy hi Mommy!_ the girls chorused excitedly, as if they hadn’t seen her in days, rather than a bell or two.

“Hello, kiddos,” Synnove said, patting first one twin and then the other. “Have you been good?”

_YEAH!_

_We helped Papa get oranges!_

_And pears!_

_And FISH! Yummy yummy fiiiiiiiish!_

_Honey, too,_ Tyr added helpfully, ears twitching in delight. _Can we bake honey spice bread with it?_

“That’s a wonderful idea, we absolutely will,” Synnove said, to triple cheers.

Aymeric chuckled, though she felt it more than heard it with how closely they were still pressed together. “They helped me pick out a little gift for you, too,” he said brightly.

The only reason she didn’t whip her head up to stare at him was because of Roksana hopping up and down on her hair. Instead, she carefully picked up both twins and set them on Tyr’s back as the topaz carbuncle stood upright on all fours (and placidly ignored his sisters as they resumed their bouncing on _him_ ); _then_ she whipped her head around to stare at her beloved. “Aymeric, you didn’t have to—”

“But I wanted to,” he said, sounding as soft as fond as she felt, smiling at her. He leaned down to kiss her nose. “And I like to.”

With a flourish, he presented her with a small leather pouch he pulled from his belt. She sighed, only a little exasperated, but obediently held out her hand, and into her palm he poured a pair of earrings: a gold ring each suspended from simple hooks, and from the rings hung gold chain links of varying lengths with pink and cowries dangling at the ends.

Synnove couldn’t help the awed _ooooooh_ that escaped her and she rocked her hand back and forth to hear the pleasantly tinkling of the chains and clack of the shells against one another. “Oh, they’re lovely! Thank you!” She hadn’t put in any earrings this morning before they’d left for the market, so she reached up to hook them into her left ear, then her right.

Aymeric absolutely did not play fair in _any_ aspect of his life: love, war, _and_ gift-giving. Earrings were her favorite type of jewelry, and she had bought herself more than one pair from the jewelry stall here in the market in past years. She shook her head, both in defeat and to again enjoy the pretty clinking of the shells against each other, and beamed up at her knight. “Thank you,” she said once more.

“You are, as always, most welcome,” he said warmly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “My beautiful Synnove.”

Warmth suffused her and a blush bloomed on her cheeks as she beamed even harder; she loved his endearments for her, but she loved best how her name rolled of his tongue, how much affection with which he infused the husky tone of it. She took a long moment to revel in all the joy he brought her, before she quietly sighed as the rest of the world trickled back into focus. “Let’s go home, hm?”

“Mmm,” Aymeric agreed with one last nuzzle, and they began walking arm in arm down the hill and towards the chocobo hitch, idly dodging other shoppers. Tyr followed, his baby sisters looking around excitedly from his back. “We have some honey spice spread to make.”

“And artichoke dip,” Synnove added.

Tyr _boofed_ excitedly. _You bought artichokes?!_ He pushed his head against her knees, shoving, and pulled a surprised yelp from her as she stumbled momentarily, kept upright only by a laughing Aymeric. He ran in front of them, boofing happily, _Come on come on let’s go home already!_ before he raced on ahead, Amandina and Roksana cheering him on.

Synnove watched them go, chuckling under her breath, though neither she nor Aymeric increased their pace just yet. But as they walked along, an absolutely wicked thought came to mind, sending a bolt of heat through her that settled low in her belly. She glanced around and, noting no one was close enough to overhear, decided to indulge it. Thus, as she walked, she leaned up to murmur in Aymeric’s ear while a sly grin pulled at her lips, “And then after lunch, we can send the carbuncles down to the beach, and I can wear absolutely nothing but these earrings.”

Aymeric’s eyes went wide, pupils dilating to swallow up the beautiful icy blue as he nearly stumbled himself. He stared at her askance—and then hot, feral greed briefly overtook his expression, and he swept her up into his arms, to her shrieking laugh of surprise.

“No time to waste, then,” he playfully growled as he picked up his pace to a light jog to reach the hitch, and Synnove ending up laughing nearly the whole way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahahahahah oops I worldbuilt again. Nine hundred or so words before Aymeric even appeared.
> 
> (Sorry not sorry, my headcanons for life in La Noscea are _extensive._ )


	4. A Seed of Calvary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Day 4: Flowers_
> 
> **Calvary, noun:** an experience of usually intense mental suffering.
> 
> The most innocuous things can trigger a tumult of memory and emotion; sometimes the only thing a man can do for his ladylove is to catch her when she falls. Sequel to the FFXIV Write 2018 fill "[Resolution](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807621/chapters/40524992#workskin)."
> 
> WARNINGS for depiction of a PTSD breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially posted to my tumblr on March 4, 2021.

“Whatever you’re doing, leave it, and get to Synnove’s house _now._ ”

Dancing Heron’s voice was harsh over the linkpearl, nearly angry, but stronger than the anger was the worry bordering on fear. Aymeric had never before heard his lady’s sister-by-choice sound like that, and it sent ice crawling down his spine.

He dropped his hand from his ear and turned to Lucia, fighting down panic rising in his chest; he was helping to oversee the installation of artillery—modified dragonkillers and Berthas, primarily—on the walls of the newly-reclaimed Ala Mhigo, and he could not let his troops see his concern, lest it spark unseemly or panicked rumors. “Ser Lucia,” he said, steady as stone, “there is a matter that requires my immediate attention; may I leave this in your capable hands?”

His second had known him for years, and all it took was one meeting of their eyes for her to understand; her expression softened for a moment, brow furrowed with concern, before in a blink it had smoothed into cool professionalism. “Of course, ser,” she said with nod. And then, quietly enough for only him to hear: “ _Go._ ”

Aymeric turned on his heel and strode away briskly, but not _too_ quick, nodding at saluting Temple Knights as he passed them by, until he turned the corner of the battlements. There were no more knights in immediate view, the nearest Resistance members further away, their attention focused outward as it should be. With no one to interrupt him now, he reached out with a thread of aether to begin casting _teleport,_ shifting through the attunements he knew as well as the back of his own hand before finding the one that sang of waves crashing against cliffs and birdsong among cedars. The thrum of it slightly soothed his panic, allowing him to _breathe,_ and on the exhale, he let the Lifestream carry him away.

When the teleportation spell set him down just outside the gate to Synnove’s beautiful La Noscean home, he was initially met by the grim visage of Heron. She loomed over him, her arms crossed, shoulders rolled in in a defensive posture, and feet side wide as if to brace herself. Her lips were pressed into a thin line and her blue eyes were shadowed with uncertainty and fear.

He had last seen _that_ look on her face during her and her sisters’ recovery following the Battle of Rhalgr’s Reach.

“What happened?” Aymeric said, doing his best to keep from snapping.

“Unsure at the moment,” Heron replied, as terse as himself. “We hadn’t heard from Synnove in a few days, but she wasn’t at the Gate, so Rereha and I decided to stop by here. We found…this.”

She gestured behind herself, and Aymeric looked past her to finally took in the yard. His jaw dropped.

Synnove had never had an interest in maintaining an ornamental lawn, instead preferring to interfere with the local apiaries as little as possible and giving most of her yard over to clover. Except now the yard, from what he could see of it, had been nearly completely torn up, the clover tilled over to dark, rich soil. There were a number of haphazard rows and lonely little mounds of dirt amongst the carnage; the rose bushes in the corner had a number of new siblings on either side of them, small and flimsy in comparison to their thorny elders, and multiple new trellises now leaned up against the side of the house, ready for vining greenery.

The only spot as yet left untouched that he could see (the vegetable and herb garden was on the other side of the house next to the kitchen, out of sight from the main gate), was beneath the oak tree. And that was where Synnove knelt, just on the edge of the shadow cast by the great tree’s branches, digging with her bare hands in a furrow, a bag of seeds just next to her knee.

Mouth and throat going dry, utterly unable to understand what had happened, and what was continuing to happen, before him, Aymeric said, “Where are the carbuncles?”

“I think she deliberately suppressed their manifestation protocols,” Heron murmured, “else they would have at least gone to the Gate to get help. They’re going to be _furious_ with her.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“I have no idea,” the Hellsguard said, frustration lacing her words. “Several days, I think; she looks a fucking _wreck._ She wouldn’t respond to either Rere or myself, either; Rere’s gone to find Aunt Angharad, she wasn’t answering her ‘pearl, and I called you; I’ll be getting Alakhai here in a moment. We figured if the two of us couldn’t get a response, either you or her aunt would, or perhaps all of us together.”

The frustration was now evident on Heron’s face, and Aymeric felt a pang of sympathy for her. She took her duties as the responsible ‘elder’ sister seriously, even more so as a paladin trained to be the focus of an enemy’s attentions and take the brunt of damage. While Heron did not personally confide in him, he could still well understand her helplessness at being unable to ascertain the cause of her sister’s distress or do anything to alleviate it.

“I will try my best,” he said simply.

Heron nodded and shifted out of the way, and Aymeric walked through the gate.

He took care of where he stepped; there was no telling if any stones had been brought to the surface when the soil had been turned over, and twisting an ankle was the absolute last thing he needed to be doing right now. Too, it seemed many of these mounds and furrows were likely seeds, though what kind he couldn’t say, and until he better understood what had compelled Synnove to do this at all, he was loathe to disturb her work. A research frenzy was nothing new for her, after all; if they were lucky, perhaps this was an extension of that, simply redirected to this new target instead.

He doubted it, but he could hope.

Finally, Aymeric reached Synnove’s side, and he crouched down next to her. She paid him no mind, her attention on the ground before her as she dug out a hole with her fingers, reached into the seed bag next to her, and dropped one in, before covering it and carefully mounding the soil atop the spot. A watering pail was on her other side, and she picked that up, tilting it and dampening the site. And then she did it again, and again, and again, mechanically, no deviation at all in the movement of her limbs. As she repeated the motion, he caught sight of her nails: broken and cracked, a few worn down to the quicks, and absolutely filthy, as were hands and arms.

He rested a hand gently on her shoulder. “Synnove?” he called softly. “Synnove, sweetheart, will you look at me?”

She ignored him—or, perhaps she couldn’t hear him. The more he took in the sight of her, planting and watering and occasionally shuffling on her knees into a different spot to better reach fallow soil, the more he began to recognize the signs of someone who had survived something terrible and fallen into a loop of memory or compulsion. He saw it most often among his knights and the House troops, but it also wasn’t unusual to see among any who had lived through a Dravanian attack, soldiers and civilians alike. A frenzy, but the not the kind he had fervently wished this was.

Aymeric swallowed, sorrow sitting heavy in his heart, and kept quietly calling to her: her name, endearments, entreaties. It was a struggle to maintain the steadiness of his voice, to keep his tone warm and calm, but his own grief would be no help right now. He could mourn with her once she was back in the present.

Finally, _finally_ , her movements slowed, then stopped all together, her head falling forward and hands lax in her lap. She pulled in a deep breath, chest expanding as far as it could, and she sighed it back out again, shaking but deliberate. And then she slowly turned her head towards him.

Heron had called her appearance wreck. Heron had understated it: Synnove looked an absolute disaster. Her hair was greasy and unkempt, half the beads she usually wore missing outright. Her lips were dry and cracked from dehydration, her normally golden bronze skin gone grey as if from aether shock, and the skin of her cheeks sunken. And her _eyes,_ oh, Fury, her eyes: the green gone dull and listless, the whites so bloodshot they were almost entirely red, with huge, dark bags bruising the skin beneath them.

If she had slept at all in the past handful of days, it had not been restful.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips and when she spoke, her voice came out as a reedy, hoarse croak: “Aymeric?”

“Hello, sweetling,” he said, cupping her cheeks. He brushed away a stray bit of dirt with his thumb and smiled at her, not entirely able to disguise his heartbreak. “You’ve given your sisters and I a bit of a fright. Will you tell me what happened?”

Synnove swallowed, eyes darting beyond him to where Heron was, and Alakhai, too, based on the sound of a single incoming teleportation he had heard not long ago. She grimaced, slightly—no doubt her sisters were in that mixed state of “we’re not mad, just disappointed” and “worried sick” they all ruthlessly wielded against one another—then focused back on himself. She licked her lips again and said, “What day is it?”

“Lightningday,” he said.

“Shite,” she said under her breath, glancing away. She breathed deeply for a few moments before she finally continued: “I went to the manor. On Earthsday.”

Confusion spun in his head; he had been home that day, a short rest to address some matters that needed the Lord Speaker’s attention. Hersande or Baptistaux would have alerted him had she stopped by—

—oh.

_Oh._

Synnove’s voice was faraway as she kept speaking. “I nearly walked by it, at first. It was—it was just some stone building, the same as all the others in the district. No vines climbing the walls, no oak tree shading the yard. It wasn’t until I saw the wolf’s head carved above the gate that I realized it was even my home.”

Her voice broke on the last word, and Aymeric shuffled closer, still holding her face in her hands, and kept rubbing the arches of her cheeks with his thumbs in soothing circles. She sniffed, hard, and looked him dead in the eye. “My grandmother’s gardens were gone,” she said, empty and flat. “All the colors, the smells, that beautiful oak that was older than any of us. Just. _Gone._ I’d known there wasn’t a chance that the manor would be unchanged, but I think I’d still hoped, and. And it _hurt,_ to have that hope taken from me.”

Tears welled at the bottoms of her eyes until they spilled over, running down her cheeks and over his thumbs and hands. All the while, Synnove kept speaking: “I went inside. I didn’t remember much about the interior, so it didn’t hurt as much. I found the attic, and—and portraits. I saw my grandmother’s face. I saw my grandfather’s.

“I saw my Uncle Tyr.”

A sob shook her frame, and Aymeric let go of her face to gather her into his arms, crooning wordlessly to his beloved and tucking her head beneath his chin. Synnove buried her face in the soft, unarmored collar of his gambeson, sniffling and choking back another hiccupping sob; his soul _ached_ for her, and he desperately wished he could snatch this pain from her and bury it far, far away, but this was a poison she needed to excise herself. All he could do was be a shelter for her as she cut it from her being.

“I brought—I brought the portrait of Uncle Tyr with me, when I left,” she said, muffled and wobbly. He smoothed back her hair and kept petting it, beginning to slowly rock her, back and forth, back and forth. “It was one with Auntie in it, too. I went to Ul’dah, to Auntie and, and I showed it to her and she just stared for the longest time, and then she _broke._ I’d seen her cry before, but never, ever like that. Eydis was home, too, and she came to see what had set Auntie off like that and she saw the portrait and—and she _hugged me._ She hasn’t hugged me since before the Fall. I spent the night there and we all just cried ourselves nearly sick.”

She burrowed closer, bringing up her hands to clutch at his surcoat in a viselike grip, and he tightened his own hold on her. “I teleported home the next morning,” his lady sniffed. “And—and I saw my yard. No morning glory vines crawling up the walls of the house, no flowers anywhere save one or two spots. Almost as empty and featureless as the Greywolfe manor is now. I think that’s when _I_ broke. There’s a blank spot in my memory; I ended up at the Botanists’ Guild, somehow. S’probably a miracle I didn’t fuck up the teleportation to Gridania or back home. I. I bought seeds. Lots of seeds. Just, flowers. Spring blooms, summer, autumn. Too late for most of them, but. But this fall, and next spring, there. There’ll just be _color._ ”

Synnove fell silent then, and Aymeric rested his cheek atop her hair and began to rub one hand up and down her spine in long, firm strokes, the way she liked to be cuddled best. She shuddered and went limp in his grasp, a broken croak of a moan rattling out of her throat as she hid her face in his neck more thoroughly.

Instinct told him that this was far from the end of Synnove’s traumas; it was a wonder they hadn’t spilled over sooner, but perhaps it was the catharsis of finally freeing the city of her birth that had been the key to unleashing the flood of emotion. There was no easy method of healing such pain; all she could do was let it out and hope in doing so it lanced the festering wound at long last. All _he_ could do was listen when she needed an ear, and provide the support she would need when her courage faltered and required shoring.

Aymeric sighed quietly, tilting his head to kiss her crown. “I will be more than glad to assist you in your planting, my Synnove,” he said to her, low and soothing. “And I’m sure your sisters will be, too. But before we return to that task, let’s get you a bath, and something to eat, and perhaps a nap. All right?”

“All right,” she hiccupped. “But—could you just hold me for a bit longer? Please?”

“Of course.” He pulled back just enough to sit on the ground, legs crossed, and Synnove crawled into his lap and buried her face in his neck once more, clinging to his shoulders while he held her. And if after a few slow heartbeats her shoulders began to shake and she finally, _finally_ let herself cry huge, deep, gulping sobs, well.

There was no one here who would judge.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. It's not worldbuilding? ~~Sorry not sorry. ~~~~~~


	5. A Touch of Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Day 5:** Home
> 
> Synnove returns to Borel Manor after a long day, fully expecting to crawl into bed next to her beloved--if he was _there._ Unfortunately, a poorly-timed migraine has waylaid him elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially posted to my tumblr on March 5, 2021.

* * *

Near to midnight and Borel Manor was still and quiet, the only sound the steady ticking of the grandfather chronometer that sat in the entrance foyer and could be heard in nearly every room of the building. Hersande and Baptistaux had kept a few oil lamps on for her, creating a small illuminated path up to the master bedroom, and Synnove smiled softly as she picked up the lamp on the pier table next to the front doors.

The carbuncles rubbed against her legs—Tyr her hip, Ivar her knee, Galette her shin, and the twins her ankles—and then beelined right for the stairs in a mass of softly glowing aetheric fur and tails. As Ivar bounded upstairs first, Galette picked up a yawning Roksana while Tyr gently scruffed Amandina, who took the opportunity as she dangled from her brother’s mouth to rub her eyes with her paws, before ascending after their ruby brother. Their summoner followed more sedately, turning off the remaining lamps as she passed them, and holding on to the bannister as she climbed upwards herself.

At the top of the stairs, her quintet of children quietly chittered their goodnights to her (poor little Roksana’s aetheric harmonic came out a barely intelligible mumble, and Amandina’s was broken by the huge _yaaaaawn_ her jaw cracked on), and then headed further down the hall to their room. Synnove blew a kiss after them and turned for the master bedroom, undoing the toggles of her jacket as she walked. When she reached the door, she grasped the handle and gently turned it, then pushed the door open slowly so the hinges wouldn’t creak in protest. For all the oiling Baptistaux did, age and the cold still conspired to the render the manor potentially _loud_ in the middle of the night.

But tonight, the door swung open smoothly with barely a whisper, and she slid inside, setting the lamp on an end table and her pack on the floor next to her vanity. As she slid her jacket off, carefully draping it over the vanity’s matching chair, she turned towards the bed, another smile on her face—and blinked, her smile falling away and her brow furrowing.

…Where was Aymeric?

Her eyes darted around the shadowed bedroom as she thought. It was—it was _definitely_ Firesday, and her knight was supposed to be focused on Parliamentary matters this week instead of military. He had even groused to her over their linkpearl at lunch about his upcoming meeting with the Counts de Durandaire and Dzemael—his least favorite combination of the Heads of the High Houses—and Master Aucheforne of the House of Commons. Even if he forgot to call her again if he was kept late, Norlaise would absolutely tattle on him, so Aymeric _should_ be home, but there was no handsome elezen in their bed.

A quiet but firm _mew_ got her attention.

Synnove looked down to meet the solemn blue gaze of Lady Crème. The Ala Kharan queen sat primly at her feet, long fluffy tail curled demurely over her paws, and _mewed_ again, insistently.

She crouched down and gently brushed her knuckles between the cat’s ears and down her back. “Good evening, my lady,” she crooned. “Could you tell me where your most devoted subject is?”

Lady Crème squinted her eyes shut for a moment, accepting the attention as her due, and then headbutted her hand and stood, padding gracefully from the room. Synnove turned off the oil lamp and obediently followed.

The true lady of Borel Manor led her down the hall—quite dark with no ambient light now, but the white of Lady Crème’s fur was a beacon that kept her from unintentionally veering off course and stubbing her toes—in the opposite direction of the carbuncles’ room, and came to a stop next to the stairs leading up to the third floor. Synnove sighed, shaking her head, and bent down to gently heft the Ala Kharan cat into her arms. “Oh, dear,” she murmured to Lady Crème, “it must have been a bad day.”

Lady Crème _mrowled_ her agreement, and softly papped her cheek with a paw.

As with many Ishgardian noble houses, Borel Manor had been built _up_ rather than _out_ , a specific luxury for the families who had claimed plots in open air, a rarity now even in the Pillars. And the Borels had always been a relatively small family; for the past two generations, it was the first and second floors that saw the most use—even Hersande and Baptistaux’s bedroom was on the second floor, in a discreet corner easily accessed by the back staircase down to the kitchens and stillroom—with the third floor opened only if more guest rooms were necessary. The fourth floor was the attic space, with some spillover storage rooms on the third, and but it had been up there that she and Aymeric had worked to convert one of the attics into a cozy little hideaway when they needed more privacy, or quiet, from the travails of life.

Synnove tucked Lady Crème more firmly into the crook of her arm and ascended the stairs to the third floor, then walked down the hallway and turned into another to reach the stairs up to the attics. (Not for the first time, she cursed whichever Borel ancestor had so thoroughly torn apart the manor interior and rearranged the stairwells at the ends of whichever halls they had wanted.) The fourth-floor landing was claustrophobic, utterly pitch black, but small enough at least that flailing out her free hand had it smacking into the door of the refurbished attic. Hissing at the lance of pain from her newly-bruised knuckles, she slid her hand along the door until she found the handle and could pull the latch.

Dimmed light spilled out onto the landing, the attic’s new lightning-crystal powered chandelier turned to its lowest setting. It was more than enough for her purpose, at least, and Synnove stepped inside, shutting the door behind her with a soft _click._

Immediately visible, in the comfortable alcove bed on the opposite end of the room, was Aymeric, laying on his side with his back to the door, shoulders rigid with tension. A sympathetic hiss escaped her lips, and she carefully set Lady Crème on the floor. The old queen chirped and sat, beginning to wash her paw, as the Highlander tiptoed closer to the alcove.

Once there, Synnove leaned over Aymeric, reaching out to gently brush her fingers through his hair and off his forehead. Her knight grunted and cracked a bloodshot eye open to look at her; pain lines radiated from the corners of his eyes and mouth, and he was unusually pale. She made another sympathetic noise, a croon this time, and kicked her boots off. Bracing herself on the edge of the mattress, she then very carefully crawled over him into the alcove and lay down on her side to face out and towards him, cupping his cheek in her palm.

“Oh, darling,” she said sadly, pitching her voice as low as possible without having to resort to a raspy whisper that would just grate on his ears, “how long have you had this migraine?”

“Mid-afternoon,” Aymeric said, grimacing and very, very slowly, began to ilm closer to her. “It began as a regular headache, so I ignored it, but it exploded after my meeting ended. Was able to come home early, and I came up here to attempt to sleep it off.”

“Didn’t go well, I see,” Synnove murmured, wiggling the rest of the way forward so he didn’t have to until her knight could shove his face into her neck with a gusty sigh. She threw one arm around his shoulder and dug her fingers into the base of his neck, and wedged the other arm beneath his head as a makeshift pillow while threading those fingers into his hair and slowly petting his head. Aymeric groaned, partially relaxing into her hold as some of the pressure in his head was alleviated.

“Was stupid,” he muttered, his lips brushing her neck. She fought the urge to twitch or giggle—that _tickled._ “Should have eaten first,” he continued, “especially since it was Baptistaux and Hersande’s night off. Likely thought I’d gone out when they retired. Woke up a bell or two ago, I think; couldn’t move. Hurt too much.”

She kissed his forehead and cuddled him closer, continuing to massage and stroke his head in the spots that usually helped release some of the tension. Her poor Aymeric; he would likely need to take the day tomorrow to finish recovering. He rarely had a migraine this bad, but it was always awful when they did strike, and so far, they had proved infuriatingly resistant to any potion the Alchemists’ Guild or Rereha’s father could concoct.

A trill caught her attention, and Lady Crème leapt into the alcove, landing so lightly the bedding didn’t dip at all. She sniffed curiously at Aymeric’s hair, and Synnove felt her beloved twitch and caught sight of his eyes moving to try and see his mother’s cat for himself—and then Lady Crème ever so gently draped herself atop Aymeric’s head (and Synnove’s hand), curling her paws under herself, and began purring ferociously.

Aymeric made a noise of surprise, and then an enormous sigh of aching relief escaped him, warming her throat and clavicles as he turned into boneless mush in her arms as the rest of the migraine finally began to dissipate. Synnove smiled and worked her hand free so she could lay it on Lady Crème’s back, while the other now pet the top of her knight’s spine.

“Good girl,” she said to the cat, who squinted her blue eyes closed.

“Thank you both,” Aymeric said with a yawn.

“Welcome, darling.”

_Mrowl._

And together, both of the Lord Commander’s ladies lulled him into a comfortable sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY I DIDN'T MAKE ANYONE CRY WITH THIS ONE! \o/ Not entirely the pure fluff I wanted, but yesterday was, uh, A Really Fucking Shitty Day and I also had an enormous migraine myself, so I...projected. A little bit. Also: Lady Creme, yay! She was first mentioned in my FFXIV Write 2019 fill "[Escape](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838770/chapters/50035877#workskin)" but not properly introduced until the FFXIV Write 2020 fill "[The Lady of the Manor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751172/chapters/65549821#workskin)."


	6. An Appetite for Ardor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Day 6:** Food
> 
> Aymeric loves his ladylove's confections nearly as much as he does the lady in question--and frequently it leads to mischief where Synnove rather it did _not_ happen. (Kitchen rules are rules for a reason!)
> 
> WARNINGS for mild NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially posted to my tumblr on March ~~6~~ 7, 2021 (the veeeeeeeery early hours).

* * *

Aymeric peered around the doorjamb into the kitchen, a considering, predatory look on his face.

Synnove stood at the counter, briskly whisking _something_ in the large bowl cradled in her arm. Even with her back turned, she was a feast for his eyes: lovely dark brown hair with its dyed blue done up into crown braids and taped with a bright green ribbon, revealing the back of her neck and a hint of the very top of her back tattoo peeking just above her shirt; the strong lines of her shoulders and biceps flexing as she worked; the flash of her green aetheric tattoos crawling up her forearms; the absolutely _gorgeous_ globes of her arse hugged by those sinful leather pants of her, highlighted further with the cant of her hip. After a moment, she set down her bowl and picked up another, sprinkling its contents—powdered sugar?—into the larger one, and then setting that bowl aside to resume her whisking. The tendons of her arm visibly flexed, setting the aetheric tattoos to glittering again, with the force of resuming whatever thick substance required mixing.

He could, faintly, hear her humming, a tune he had heard before: what the ambient aether of La Noscea sounded like to her. When she was lost in thought, she frequently ended up humming along with the aether of wherever she was and not even realize she was doing so. Combined with the rhythmic clacking of the whisk against the sides of the bowl and the soft _shrrrrr_ of the thick concoction being mixed within…

He went from predatory to devious.

He slid forward into the kitchen, careful to glide rather than step; Synnove was deep enough in reverie that she likely would not notice the barely-perceptible sound or vibration of someone walking, but better safe than sorry to pull off this bit of mischief. The motion was made easier with having taken his boots off when he had entered the house, leaving him in his socks for now. He moved around the one spot in the floorboard next to the table in the center of the room that _creaked_ no matter how many times his lady repaired the subfloor and its joists, and then it was just one more sliding step, a second, a third…

He came to a stop a fulm behind Synnove and slightly to her left. He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward; this close, he could see the hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise as her unconscious mind sensed him.

Into her ear, Aymeric breathed, “Boo.”

Synnove’s **_SHRIEK_** shook the kitchen, rattling dishes and glassware, and he was already ducking down and aside to avoid her whisk as she whirled around, brandishing the utensil like a weapon. The force of her momentum sent large dollops of whatever she had been mixing—oooh, chocolate buttercream?—splattering onto the center table and one of the chairs; she froze when she caught sight of him, her chest heaving as she _stared,_ emerald eyes wide and darting about.

And then they narrowed into furious slits. “You _asshole,_ ” she growled. “There are _rules_ about _sneaking_ in _my kitchen._ ”

“You weren’t using a knife,” he said sweetly. “And you didn’t drop the bowl.”

She pointed the whisk menacingly at him. “Don’t try to find a loophole on _me,_ mister,” she said.

Aymeric bent down, keeping eye contact with her, and darted his tongue out to lick the end of the whisk, the tip wedging into the tines to get as much of the treat as possible. If he had been physically capable of purring like a coeurl, he would have in that moment at the explosion of rich, heady decadence across his tongue. _Definitely_ chocolate buttercream, and with a hint of hazelnut. His eyes fell briefly shut, and when he reopened them, he licked his lips and smiled at her, slow and once more predatory.

His lady’s eyes widened, her pupils dilating and a light flush rosing the bronze of her cheeks; for a moment, he saw the laughter twinkling in the emerald depths of her gaze, the twitch of a grin at her lips, and then she firmed her expression into scowling, slightly exaggerated, disapproval. She pulled the whisk back towards herself and tucked both it and the bowl of chocolatey heaven protectively against her chest, turning slightly aside for good measure. “There are rules about sex in my kitchen, too.”

“It’s a good rule,” he said, low and throaty, taking a step towards her. “Far less likely to court disaster. Or mental trauma for impressionable aether constructs.”

Synnove took a step back and immediately bumped into the counter. Her cheeks puffed out in the adorable manner they did when she was frustrated, but not angry so much as annoyed she couldn’t make a longer play in this little game; this was an expression she rarely allowed anyone to see, and for a moment, Aymeric’s chest warmed with affection. What a treasure, to have the privilege of knowing such an extraordinarily woman at her most open.

“You are a cad,” his lady said with a huff. “A louse. An absolute scoundrel.”

His smile widened, sly and pleased, and plucked the buttercream bowl from her grasp, and then the whisk, with no resistance. He set them aside, but not before swiping a stray line of chocolate from the rim of the bowl with his finger, and popping it into his mouth to suck it clean. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment as the flavor again overwhelmed his senses; Synnove _claimed_ to not be spectacular at cooking or baking, but experience as ever told him otherwise. A shame she had never considered a career at the Culinarians’ Guild instead.

As a positive, it did mean he rarely had to share.

When Aymeric opened his eyes, the blush on Synnove’s face had crept down her neck and the vivid green of her eyes was nearly gone, swallowed almost entirely by pupil. The tip of her tongue poked out of her mouth to briefly wet her lips, and heat pulsed through him at the sight of it. He pulled his finger free of his mouth, and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the countertop on either side of her. They were close enough that their noses were but a hair’s breadth apart, and his lady’s utterly lovely breasts just barely brushed against his chest with every breathe.

“ _Your_ scoundrel,” he murmured, and kissed her.

Synnove sighed beneath him, those wondrous eyes falling closed and her fine-boned hands coming up to bury themselves in his hair. He nuzzled against the plushness of her lips, a rumble of satisfaction deep in his chest as her fingers gently raked across his scalp. He tasted chocolate on her, made all the richer by the tang of her skin, and he couldn’t help the chuckle that shook his shoulders; what cook didn’t taste their own creations as they worked, after all?

His beloved gently swatted at him even as a giggle escaped her, and in a moment, he had an arm around her waist to hoist her up onto the edge of the counter. She wrapped her legs around his hips in response, pulling him closer to cradle him between her thighs, and Aymeric _growled,_ ferocious hunger sizzling up and down his spine as his breeches tightened uncomfortably. He had held her against himself just this morning before he had left for a day of bureaucratic drudgery, listened to her gasping, breathy moans as he had worked her to a gentle peak with merely his fingers in the dawning light spilling across their bed, and still he found being pressed against her from chest to groin as utterly intoxicating as the first time she granted him the pleasure of her favor years ago.

They broke apart long enough to gasp for breath before they clashed together again, their kisses deepening to the edge of ferity with ruthless flashes of nipping teeth; even without bare skin in reach, the heat of her through her clothes beneath his hands and every sweet sound he pulled from her sent fresh bolts of desire coursing through him. Aymeric had just enough awareness to keep his hips still and his teeth out of her throat, despite all his instincts screaming otherwise, and from the rigid tension he felt in her own thighs, shaking from the strain of not moving, he gathered Synnove was struggling much the same against the instinct to rut and claim. Her rule _was_ a good rule: he still had a faint scar on his palm from the knife that had sliced it open in a moment of lust-induced carelessness in this very kitchen, and a burn on Synnove’s arm from it connecting with the still-on stove had taken weeks to properly heal, even with potions and _physick._

Gods, but the temptation to have her in the heart of her domain was still _damnably_ strong.

( _Ahem._ )

With a growl, he grasped her thighs, and Synnove immediately tightened her hold around his shoulders as he lifted her from the countertop. He wheeled around on his heel, continuing to devour her and be devoured in turn, fully intent on making it to the living room with its lockable door at the very least before he began ripping off her clothes—

_AHEM._

Aymeric froze, eyes fully shooting open and all of his arousal gone in an instant and winter-cold shock. Synnove’s eyes popped open, too, her face going pale and then bright, glowing red, and they stared at one another for a long moment, horrified. They finally broke apart, and looked down.

Galette glared up at them, ears pinned flat to her head and her trio of tails lashing wildly, and chittered angrily. _Really?_

Aymeric cleared his throat. “My apologies, Galette.”

_There is supposed to be CAKE RIGHT NOW._

His lips did not twitch, because _of course_ the sugar fiend’s priorities would lay there and if he showed anything but genuine contriteness, he would end up tossed through a window by a summoned zephyr, but it was a near thing. Synnove’s head dropped to his shoulder, her blush so fluorescent he could feel it burning from the small bit of skin just brushing his neck. He was unable to make out what it was she mumbled into the leather of his jerkin.

Galette, however, apparently was able to hear her mama’s muffled words, as she sniffed disdainfully and trotted out of the kitchen with a rude flick of her tails.

Synnove unwrapped her legs from around his hips and he obediently helped to gently set her on her feet once more, drawing his hands up to settle on her waist as soon as it was safe to do so. He rubbed his thumbs in tight, soothing circles on her abdomen, and tried to smile ruefully. His lady instead crossed her arms and glared at him.

“ _The rule,_ ” she said.

Even more important than observing kitchen safety: ensuring the carbuncles never received an eyeful of shameless indiscretion.

Aymeric grimaced. “I know.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“I deserve that.”

“And no cake.”

“Oh, that’s just cruel, love!”


	7. A Reverie of Repose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Day 7:** Love
> 
> It's so rare to have a day and just be, with no cares or responsibilities about which to worry. Absolutely no one will blame them for being lazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially posted to my tumblr on March 7, 2021.

The sunshine that seeped, treacle-like, across the floor and eventually onto the bed was soothingly warm without overheating the cozy pile of blankets under which she lay. The angle through the window was just _perfect,_ lighting the room without directly hitting her eyes. She could hear the pair of robins that nested in the oak singing to one another, and more distantly, the excited cheering of Amandina and Roksana as Tyr escorted them to the beach.

A crick in her back niggled at her and, reluctantly, Synnove uncurled from her bundle of limbs and stretched, hands straight above her head and legs and toes pointing to the footboard, holding it until her spine _cracked_. She sighed, slow and content, and curled back into a ball and burrowed back down into her pillow. She had no obligations today: no classes to teach or papers to grade; no Ascians needing thwarting (yet, anyway); no political functions in either Limsa Lominsa or Ishgard to attend. Her only requirement was to relax and do whatever she wished, be it laze about on the couch with a new novel or weed and water her multitude of beautiful flowers without fear of interruption.

Or, as she was currently doing, sleep in.

She snuggled more thoroughly into her nest of pillows and sheets and blankets; it was just so _nice_ to still be in bed long after the sun had risen and have it _not_ been due to a multi-day research binge without sleep had abruptly ended and resulting her passing out into something much closer to a coma than true sleep. In fact, she felt _well-rested_ ; she could roll out of bed and be about her day with little grumbling and a pep in her step…she would just rather not.

The warmth and comfort eventually lulled her into a doze, half-aware of the world around herself, drifting in and out of muzzy consciousness. A creaking of the stairs very briefly caught her attention, but not enough to cause her to fully rouse.

She must have dipped ever-so-briefly into that deep well of true sleep, the kind where one swore it must have been bells but in fact had only been a mere few minutes, as between one blink and the next, Aymeric was leaning over her, his hands braced on the mattress and his lips brushing against her temple and nuzzling against the shell of her ear. He made a delectable sight, breakfast for her eyes in a soft linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and the top four buttons undone, giving her an excellent view of the strong planes of his chest. A quiet, pleased hum escaped her, and she cracked her eyes open to squint at him and _s-l-o-w-l-y_ blink, as if she was a cat. Her knight blinked in the exact same slow, measured way, and they both fell to giggling, Aymeric tucking his face into her neck as he did.

“Lady Crème is a terrible influence,” he said between muffled giggles.

“Turning us all into her feline subjects,” Synnove agreed with a final laugh, and turned her head enough to kiss his forehead. “G’morning, my Aymeric.”

“Good morning, my Synnove. Did you sleep well?”

“Mmmm. Thank you for taking care of the carbuncles.”

“It was no hardship,” he said, pulling back to smile down at her. “It’s quite fun preparing breakfast for them, even if the twins still believe falling into the pancake batter bowl is a competition they need to win.”

“The girls know _exactly_ what they’re doing, darling.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I dread the day they learn subtlety.”

Synnove freed an arm and reached up and behind herself to knock her knuckles against the headboard.

Her beloved snickered, ducking his head, and after a moment met her eyes again to add, “Ivar’s gone off to the smithy at the Stead, and Galette’s ensconced herself on the patio with her latest natural history text. Lady Crème has decided the east window in the living room will be acceptable perch for the morning and was most insistent I move her pillow there at my earliest convenience.”

“As soon as you were upright, then.”

“Just so.”

“So…we have nearly the whole of the house to ourselves with very little chance of interruption, is that it?”

Aymeric hummed agreement, ice blue eyes glittering. They regarded one another for long, slow moments, their gazes interrupted only by the need to blink. Synnove arched an eyebrow. Her knight nodded.

In a flurry of movement, Synnove threw back the covers, hissing at the shock of the cooler air of the bedroom compared to the warmth of the blankets, and Aymeric dove onto the bed, the force of it bouncing her an ilm off the mattress. She dropped the blankets once he was next to her, and the pair of them wiggled around in the mess of a nest, kicking stray sheets back into place and rearranging pillows to their liking and unashamedly shoving at one another, breathless giggles filling the air, to tuck and yank the nest into order. When they were finished, they lay facing one another, legs entwined and arms wrapped around one another and foreheads pressed together, oozing pleased satisfaction.

Synnove beamed at her knight. “Comfy?”

“Quite,” he said, and tilted his head to kiss her, soft and sweet and worshipful.

She sighed that slow, content sigh again, syrupy languidness combining with soul-deep affection to tug heavy at her limbs as they exchanged gentle, pecking kisses and showered one another with them all over their faces as they nuzzled into one another as much as they could. Passion had its place, raw and feral and heady, with all the delightful physical reminders—soreness and bruises and the faint impressions of teeth—they left her of their time together, but _these_ were the moments she treasured most of all, the ones she brought to the forefront of her mind when duty took her far from home and she desperately missed him. The bouts of spontaneous silliness; the back-and-forth banter, teasing and good-natured; the thoughtfulness of his gifts and actions; the warmth and depth of his adoration for her, and she for him.

Aymeric pressed a last kiss to her throat, a hint of teeth just behind his lips that had her instinctively arching against him, and then drew back to grab the chronometer on the bedside table, winding it to set an alarm.

“Tempting as it is to while away the day in bed, my love,” he said, setting it back down and wrapping her back up in his strong arms, “it’s not wholly feasible.” Regret shaded his voice.

He was correct: there was lunch and dinner to make; the carbuncles to tend to; all of the little chores that would need doing or preparing to make going back to work on the morrow easier and more tolerable. Everything that a pair of responsible adults needed to address on a daily basis, even when otherwise the world allowed them the chance to be sluggards. But it made the moments like this all the sweeter.

“That’s all right,” she said, wriggling down just enough to be able to nose against the hollow of his clavicle and bringing her hand up to pet the skin over his heart. She didn’t bother to cover the yawn that suddenly overtook her. “One day we will.”

A comfortable silence settled over them and as he gently rubbed his cheek against her hair, Synnove quickly drifted back to sleep; she always did, in Aymeric’s embrace.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff! Fluff fluff fluffity fluff fluff. \o/ Fluuuuuuuuuff!
> 
> (Bonus day still to go! That'll be up on my tumblr first tonight before uploading here tomorrow with some final clean up!)


	8. A Charm of Carbuncles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus Day:** Ducklings
> 
> Take Your (Carbuncle) Daughters To Work Day at the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially posted to my tumblr on March 8, 2021.

* * *

Snow fell gently from the heavens as Aymeric arrived in Saint Valeroyant’s Forum via the aethernet. The street sweepers were out in force removing snow and breaking up patches of ice; the blizzard last night had been short but fierce, but the skywatchers were predicting clear skies this afternoon, and as he walked across the Forum, he overheard some of his fellow Ishgardians discussing the possibility of getting hot drinks to watch the star shower the Athenaeum had been touting was to begin tonight. Not so long ago, the talk would have been about extra patrols on the walls in anticipation of a possible Dravanian attack, and he could not help but smile softly at the difference.

Just another day in the Republic of Ishgard.

As he approached the Congregation, the knight on door duty for the morning—Firmalbert, as ever, after the battle that had left him with little feeling in his swordarm, but Lucia and Handeloup had worked overtime to present an ironclad report to the priests about why the man could not be dismissed—saluted, and Aymeric nodded back in acknowledgment.

“Ser Firmalbert, good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Ser Aymeric,” Firmalbert replied cheerfully. Through the other man’s visor, Aymeric could see when the knight glanced away to resume his watch—and also when he blinked in surprise, and looked down.

_Hello, Ser Firmalbert!_

The old knight’s shoulders shook once in the familiar manner of someone valiantly suppressing laughter. “Hello, Miss Amandina, Miss Roksana,” he said, bowing courteously to them as they passed.

Aymeric chuckled as he pushed open the rightmost door into the Congregation, and held it open long enough for the girls to file in after himself. He relaxed minutely once he had closed the door and stepped further inside: no matter how many layers were between himself and the cold, the Congregation was always kept warm enough for it to be cozy inside, and thus was a welcome relief even after a short walk from home to the Athenaeum aetheryte. The main hall was already a hive of activity, with knights scurrying to and from offices and barracks and training salles in the upper and lower levels, and returning or departing for patrols throughout the city or Coerthas.

His arrival, of course, garnered attention as he strode for the lift that would take him to his office; salutes, greetings, jaunty waves from older knights who had known him since he was a green squire and had enough seniority that a bit of overfamiliar insubordination was a matter that all present would turn a blind eye to. He nodded and smiled as ever, and flat out grinned when the gazes of his Temple Knights inevitably slid away and _down_ to the carbunclets neatly following behind him in a line; black pearl Amandina with her pretty purple iridescence and white pearl Roksana and her beautiful blue sheen. There were more than a few rueful head shakes (more senior knights and staff) or gasps of delight (new recruits) in their wake, and the girls were the exemplars of fine little ladies, greeting everyone by name as they passed.

The lift ride was short and uneventful, and his office unlocked without incident, which meant he wasn’t in immediate danger of being bodily thrown out of the city by either Lucia or Norlaise for overwork. He settled at his desk, taking a moment to enjoy the new chair he had shamelessly requisitioned upon the realization there was room in the Temple Knight budget for it—sturdy arms and buttery soft leather seat and enough room to properly _slouch_ if he so desired—and watched the twins neatly leap onto the ironwood desktop and crawl into the pillowed wicker basket he had placed there for their use. Once they had made themselves comfortable, he retrieved one of the books they had requested he bring for them today (a Nanette Dracht mystery, one of their first forays into chaptered fiction, though they still adored picture books and less complex children’s books), opening it to the first page and propping it in the basket so it was easily viewable by them both.

“All right?”

 _Perfect, Papa!_ Roksana peeped.

 _Thank you!_ Amandina said, wiggling her ears.

Aymeric smiled and gently pet them, Roksana and then Amandina, as the girls squeakily purred.

It was then that a knock came at the door, and all three looked up.

“Enter!” he called out.

Inside stepped Lucia, followed by Handeloup with a tray containing a pot of tea, thick-walled mug, a small jar of birch syrup, a carafe of juice, two swallow dishes, and a plate piled high with breakfast pastries both sweet and savory. The girls cheered, tumbling out of their basket to scramble to the edge of the desk and bounce up and down excitedly.

_Hi, Aunt Lucia! Hi Uncle ‘Loup! Hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hiiiiiiiii!_

His First and Second Commanders smiled at the pair of pearl carbunclets as Aymeric smothered a laugh behind his hand. Lucia’s was especially wide, and she held out her hands as she approached them. “Hello, little ones,” she cooed. Once she was close enough, she crouched down so she was eye level with them and gathered them up into her arms. “How are you this morning?”

 _Good!_ said Amandina, headbutting her chin.

 _How’re YOU?_ Roksana chittered, snuggling close.

“I’m doing quite well, thank you, especially since I’ve now had the chance to hug you two!”

Aymeric and Handeloup exchanged a look as the latter set the tray down on the end of the desk, and then both quickly looked away, casting their eyes towards the ceiling. If they even _hinted_ at a tease of their friend for how quickly she turned to putty in the twins’ paws, she would chase them around one of the salles and beat them black and blue with the flat of her sword. And then she would sweetly suggest a joint training session with the Watch, and set Hilda on them, and his Synnove and Handeloup’s Odeve would have _no_ pity for them.

Lucia, meanwhile, having gotten the cuddles due to her as honorary auntie, had set the carbunclets back on the desk. Amandina and Roksana almost immediately sat down, tiny chests puffed out and tails held up in pretty arches as they straightened their posture.

 _Notice anything different about us?_ they chimed.

His First Commander cocked her head, but quickly flashed them a smile. “Well, it can’t be your ears,” she said, reaching out to stroke the extremities in question. The girls purred. “Or your tails, they’re all still perfect!”

“And _certainly_ you’re still just as pretty as ever,” Handeloup drawled with a grin. He absolutely knew how to flatter a daughter.

As Handeloup spoke and the carbunclets were temporarily distracted by him, Lucia glanced up at Aymeric, quirking an eyebrow.

Aymeric grinned and quickly flashed three of the Temple Knights’ hand signals: _Synnove, magic, inside._ It was the closest he could get to an off-the-cuff explanation that Synnove had recently given their pearl foci a fresh infusion of aether. The twins had practically vibrated right out of their shaping arrays after the session, they had been so excited.

“Hmmmm,” Lucia said exaggeratedly, placing a finger on her chin thoughtfully, “could it be you’re a little bit more magical?”

 _Ooooh,_ hummed Amandina.

 _Close!_ said Roksana.

And then, in chorus: _We’re BIGGER!_ To emphasize the statement, they puffed their chests out even further, unmistakably posing.

Lucia widened her eyes. “Oh, my goodness, so you _are_.”

Handeloup, not in view of the girls, had slapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking. He was profoundly lucky that he was in more casual leathers than full formal plate today; otherwise, there would have been no hiding his amusement.

Aymeric made another two hand signs ( _height, shoulder_ ) and then held up his hand, forefinger and thumb a half-ilm apart.

Handeloup’s face contorted in an effort to stay silent, and he moved his hand so he could bite down on the meat of his thumb. Lucia flickered her eyes towards him and, Fury bless her Frumentarium heart, kept her face from twitching out of the expression of doting wonder as she said to the girls, “A whole half-ilm taller, by the looks of it!”

The twins gasped in delight.

 _She’s so good at this,_ the white pearl carbunclet whispered—too loudly—to her sister.

 _I told you she’d notice!_ the black pearl carbunclet said in the same tone with a wise nod.

Now Aymeric had to clap _his_ hands over his mouth to keep from bursting into giggles and giving it all away. Handeloup was beginning to turn a fascinating shade of purple-red. And Lucia’s smile ilmed over into a smug, self-satisfied smirk at retaking the lead in the competition she and Synnove’s sisters had for being the favorite auntie.

Later, after Lucia managed to drag Handeloup out of the office before he asphyxiated—the girls had twitched in surprise at the explosive, wheezing _cackle_ that had echoed down the hallway from the lift, looking around in befuddlement—and breakfast was consumed, and they girls had read an entire book (carefully pawing the pages to turn them, tiny tongues sticking out in concentration) and settled down for a nap before lunch, his linkpearl, the personal one, chimed softly. Aymeric smiled and set down his report, leaning back in his chair and lifting his hand to his ear. The call was coming a little sooner than he had anticipated, but that simply made it all the better.

“Hello, my lady,” he said softly, so as not to disturb the sleeping carbunclets. “How goes the conference?”

“Hello, my lord.” Synnove’s cheerful voice came through clear as a bell; she must have retreated to her office, that overlooked Mealvaan’s Gate and most of Limsa Lominsa, for the time being. “I’ve refrained from strangling anyone, but we’ve only just finished the keynote and begun the first panels, so there’s still time!”

He laughed softly. “Perhaps this can be the conference that you refrain from raising poor Thubyrgeim’s blood pressure.”

“I will make no promises. How are my girls doing?”

“Quite well,” he said, glancing over at them. Roksana was gently chewing on Amandina’s ear in her sleep; Amandina’s back leg twitched with every third nibble. “And currently asleep; I’ll take them to the mess hall for lunch so they can properly show off for everyone.”

Synnove’s answering laugh was sweet and husky. “Thank you again for indulging them. I knew they wouldn’t get quite the attention they wanted here with everyone so focused on—” He heard a distant knock on her end of the line. “Oh, hells. One moment, Aymeric.”

“Of course.”

The line briefly went quiet, and when Synnove returned, it crackled with the force of her sigh. “Seven fucking hells, we’ve got a new record: first blood drawn at a half-bell past the end of the opening keynote.”

“Do I want to know?”

“All I’ll say for now is that it involves a protractor and the rest of the explanation will require alcohol at the ready.”

Aymeric chuckled. “Then I’ll see you at dinner tonight.”

“See you at dinner! I love you.”

“I love you, too, Synnove.”

The line closed and Aymeric let out a quiet sight as he dropped his hand to fold both of them in his lap, a rueful grin on his lips. For all he complained about his dual responsibilities as Lord Commander and Lord Speaker, at least he didn’t have to manage _arcanists._ Give him squabbling lords over insane academics any day.

He leaned forward and picked up his quill. The sooner he finished reviewing these reports, the sooner he could take the girls to lunch; the sooner he could take the girls to lunch, the more quickly the day would pass. And the more quickly the day would pass, the sooner he would be able to see Synnove.

He smiled, and got back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know me, and you saw the prompt for the bonus day and _didn't_ think this would be the result, then I am very disappointed in you. XD
> 
> And that's a wrap! \o/ Thank you to everyone on both tumblr and here on AO3 for reading!


End file.
